


Tinder Is the Night

by rohkeutta



Series: a pocketful of mumbles [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Dick Pics, Extremely Vanilla Humiliation Kink, Getting Together, Height Differences, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Online Dating, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Sexting, Size Kink, This ship is now officially called Twink Tank, Twink Tank, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: It’s the quality that gets him first. The profile photo looks like it's been taken with a semi-professional camera: it's sharp and remarkably unposed compared to most people on Tinder. The guy in the photo is the size of a fucking fridge but with Marilyn Monroe’s waistline, accentuated by the way he’s standing half-twisted towards the camera.He’s also in the process of getting arrested.Steve, 28,it says under the photo.New York City. Some say I have an arresting personality. This photo is from my good side. The other has a shiner.





	Tinder Is the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MCU kink bingo 2019, square N1, Sending a Dick Pic or a Snatch Shot.
> 
> In RBB discord, withinmelove/Liv mentioned stumbling upon some guy who had used an arrest photo on his online dating profile, so I stole the idea and ran with it and committed crimes with it and had a lavish beach wedding with it and this is the baby we made. The title is absolutely a joke about Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
> 
> Steve's texts are in cursive, Bucky's in bolded cursive.
> 
> Big thank you to Meg, Lena, Gerry, Helene and Jay for test reading, and to Grace for a swift beta read and wonderful shrieky comments. xx

Bucky’s warming up in a sheltered sunspot near the Dominique Ansel Bakery’s cronut line, a gigantic coffee between his hands and face tipped up to the sun, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Between juggling his coffee and getting his glove off, it takes some maneuvering to extract it, but when he checks, it turns out to be another of those “You have Super Likes waiting for you!” notifications that Tinder sends. As if anybody actually gives out Super Likes on purpose instead of just accidentally swiping in the wrong direction.

Bucky opens the app anyway out of idle curiosity: the cronut line makes him claustrophobic so Clint is queueing for both of them, and until the box of greasy gold is theirs, Bucky has nothing better to do. Besides, he wants to see which poor bastard moved their finger a fraction too high when trying to swipe left on him. To find the Super Like he has to swipe through the usual stack of smart-looking women with great photos, fashionable hipster gays, and slimy guys who are either trying too hard or too little - and the Super Like turns out to be someone who isn't trying at all. Bucky swipes left on him, and that's when he stumbles upon _it._

It’s the quality that gets him first. The profile photo looks like it's been taken with a semi-professional camera: it's sharp and remarkably unposed compared to most people on Tinder. The guy in the photo is the size of a fucking fridge but with Marilyn Monroe’s waistline, accentuated by the way he’s standing half-twisted towards the camera.

He’s also in the process of getting arrested.

There's two put-upon looking officers putting handcuffs on him, a sweatshirt that says _PUNCH MORE NAZIS,_ and the Washington Square Park arch looming in the corner of the photo. Bucky recognizes the protest: he’d been out of town himself, but Natasha had gone and sent photos. Maybe she knows the guy; she's exactly the type of person to befriend people who put civil activism arrest photos in their dating profile.

 _Steve, 28,_ it says under the photo. _New York City. Some say I have an arresting personality. This photo is from my good side. The other has a shiner._

Bucky laughs aloud, taps through to the guy’s photos, and okay. _Okay._ Mysterious brawler Steve is a fucking looker, and his photos are _great:_ he hangs out with puppies, hikes in Bear Mountain and takes mirror selfies in the gym, beaming in every single one like he won a free iPhone.

Bucky goes through the whole spectrum of human emotions in about ten seconds as he swipes through the photos, and in the end settles for intrigue and lowkey arousal, getting a little hot under the collar despite the chilly weather from Arresting Steve’s gym photos. He has really, _really_ nice shoulders. Bucky’s legs would look _so good_ around them.

On a split second decision, he swipes right. His phone vibrates loudly, making him jump and drop it, and when he has performed a brief modern dance called Scrabble For Ya Android and can check the screen, he finds out that he has a new Tinder match.

Arresting Steve has liked him back. Damn.

He’s hovering his thumbs over the opened chat, trying to decide which level of Big Nope quoting Jailhouse Rock is, when Clint suddenly turns up with the pastry box, announcing himself by yelling “Cronuts!” next to Bucky’s ear.

Bucky nearly drops both his phone and his coffee because he startles so badly. “Jesus, don't do that, a guy can get a heart attack for less.” He closes the chat without sending even a simple ‘hi’, suddenly self-conscious about his own profile which is full of lame space puns and photos of him dozing with Nat’s cat in a sunspot. Maybe Arresting Steve got a muscle spasm and liked him by accident.

“Are you on Tinder?” Clint squints at Bucky’s phone, too curious for his own good. “I thought you deleted it after that Pancake Guy fiasco.”

Bucky shudders. “I did.” Clint gives him A Look. “But I downloaded it again last weekend because I got drunk alone at home on boxed wine and knew I was gonna die alone.”

“Wow,” Clint says, genuinely impressed. “You have more faith in humanity than me. Has your taste in men improved since the last time?”

Bucky gives that to Clint; the Pancake Guy had been _bad._ He’d seemed perfectly normal until he’d leaned over the table at Wendy’s - a truly classy pick for the first date, but he had _really_ nice eyes - and said, “You have a perfect stomach to eat pancakes off of. Do you like butter?”

Bucky thinks about Arresting Steve and _This photo is from my good side. The other has a shiner_. “Probably not,” he admits. “Let's go, I'm freezing.”

***

When he checks his phone an hour later, sprawled out on Clint’s couch and drowsy from the cronut coma, he’s surprised to find four Tinder messages waiting for him. There’s one generic _hey_ , one clearly inspired poem that reads ‘ _u like pussycats, i like ur catty pussy, oh buck, wanna fuck’_ , and finally, at the bottom - two messages from Arresting Steve.

 _Hi!_ says the first. Short and succinct. Classic. It was sent about twenty minutes after Bucky matched with him.

_My best friend told me that asking about your favorite Mars rover would be the lamest opening ever so do you know what convicts use in jail?_

_Cell phones_

Bucky snorts, helplessly charmed by the lamest of puns, and regrets it when his cronut baby makes itself known. Clint is thankfully passed out on a mid-morning post-crunchbrunch nap in the armchair and therefore can’t witness Bucky’s bad life choices.

 **_You’re a real riot,_ ** Bucky types back and risks a winking face, hoping that Steve doesn’t have a phone with terrible emojis that will make the winky face look like Bucky wants to lick his armpit.

 _That’s what the NYPD said_ , Steve sends back with a smug face. _You’re illegally cute, come visit the precinct jail and I’ll be on your bail and call_

Bucky has to put his phone down and cover his hot face with both hands for a full minute, because he’s already a little in love.

***

The conversation with Steve evolves faster than Bucky’s fashion sense in high school. They move to WhatsApp within four hours of Bucky’s initial reply and end up texting on and off for the whole day. Bucky learns that apart from jail jokes, puppies, and lifting, Steve likes K-pop and drawing and brunettes with lame space jokes, and definitely, _definitely_ didn’t swipe right on Bucky by accident. He works as a tech support and is the only person in his team who likes to be on call, because it means that he gets to engage in Twitter fights all night on his company’s dime and gets extra days off for it.

He’s also the world’s _biggest fucking flirt._ Not fifteen minutes go by without some form of harmless innuendo or a driveby compliment, which is unfortunate because Bucky is extremely weak for both when they are coming from a guy who’s smart as a whip, funny as shit, and has a body shape with an eerie resemblance to Mr Incredible, except with less neck and more leg.

It’s a little awkward at times, of course, because they’re still testing the waters and trying to gauge if it’s that specific kind of kinship where XD is an acceptable way to express hysteric, disbelieving chortles. (It is.)

But it's also wonderful and exhilarating, and Bucky goes to bed with nervous excitement, the beginnings of a crush, and a healthy dose of sheer terror at Steve’s _everything_ all tangling in his stomach. It’s been a while since he’s met someone - or, well, matched with someone nice online. _Meeting someone_ always conjures up images of him looking up from the cash register at work to catch some rich, handsome man’s eye over the AW 2018-2019 tie collection. A Celine Dion song would start to play. The man would smile, and Bucky would duck his head, only to find him mysteriously gone, except twenty minutes later an enormous flower arrangement would arrive to the menswear shop. There'd be wooing and pining and general misunderstandings, but most importantly, a happy ever after.

Well. Bucky _has_ been single for a while.

***

There’s a climate change protest on Wednesday; Bucky’s tied up at work, but Steve has a day off and sends selfies of him and another hot, buff guy who apparently is his best friend Sam. Bucky would be envious of how annoyingly handsome besties they are, but him and Nat ain't exactly shoddy either, so there's that.

They’re both wearing knitted sweaters with a flaming planet Earth on the chest. Bucky absolutely doesn't lose about three minutes of his workday just gazing at the stretch of the flame pattern over Steve's pectorals.

 _Sam’s Grandma made them,_ Steve tells him when Bucky finally snaps out of his reverie and compliments the sweaters. _She’s here with us. Hold up_

A minute later Bucky’s phone buzzes to show a photo of an elderly black woman in a gigantic overcoat, squeezing Steve’s cheek, looking stern. Steve looks way happier than he should have any right to be.

_She wants to know why I’m here and not sprinting across town to bring you a hot dog for lunch, there’s a good cart around here_

**_That’s an excellent question_ **

_I don’t think she means the same kind of sausage between two buns that I’m thinking tho_

Bucky makes a downright ugly chortling noise, muffling it quickly - it’s his ten-minute coffee and pee break, so naturally he’s holed up in the bathroom to text Steve. But that does give him the advantage of a full-length mirror, so he turns and snaps a photo over his shoulder, showing off the impeccable tailoring of his work slacks. Sometimes it really pays off to work in a high-end menswear shop.

He sends the photo and types out a message before he gets cold feet, and shoves his phone into his pocket so that he doesn’t have to see Steve’s reaction to his **_too bad, i’ll just enjoy these buns all by myself then_ ** _._

When he checks on his next bathroom break, there’s one single message saying ‘ _holy fuck’ ,_ but nothing to follow; Steve’s gone abruptly quiet. Bucky shrugs, decides to take the profanity as a compliment, figures that the protest has started in earnest, and goes on with his day.

Six hours later Steve sends, _Hey sorry I got arrested like 2mins after your message [weary emoji] maybe they saw how badly i wanted to_ **_cop_ ** _a feel_

Bucky laughs through his whole run, wheezing for breath.

***

By Saturday his online crush on Steve has bloomed into a full-on embarrassing ordeal, and it’s really hard to keep himself from checking his phone every two minutes as he has dinner with Clint and Nat. It’s another story _after_ dinner, though: Nat pointedly doesn’t ask about Bucky’s buzzing phone as they watch an episode of _Chef’s Table_ for digestive, and Clint clocks promptly out before the episode intro has even started.

They trade lazy messages back and forth for over an hour: Steve’s volunteering in a soup kitchen before his on-call night shift, and Bucky is in his usual spot on Nat’s living room rug, curled up next to Liho who’s purring like the world’s smallest biodiesel engine. Bucky’s already sent Steve at least seventeen photos of her.

_I just saw a man yell I’M WAWKIN’ ‘ERE at a taxi and I feel like I’ve witnessed New York’s ancient deity in action_

**_EY TONAY_ **

_BADA BING_

**_BADA BOOM_ **

_Getcha hotdog, Bucky ;-)_

Clint is still asleep on the couch, and Nat’s clanging away in the kitchen, clearing the leftovers now that the worst food coma has passed. Liho stretches, turns around with every paw in the air, and touches Bucky’s cheek with her cool little nose, making the cutest fucking _mrrp_ chirp Bucky’s heard in his life.

He arranges his hair a little, angles his head so that his cheekbones catch the slanted light, and takes a carefully framed selfie with Liho, who’s mostly a small black void next to his face. It’s a damn good selfie: hair fanned out on Nat’s off-white rug, half-lidded eyes, a contented curl to his mouth, the light highlighting the angles of his face and the auburn hues in Liho’s fur.

He sends it to Steve before he has time to start second-guessing, and then puts his face against Liho’s soft flank to wait for the judgement. It takes a few long seconds before his phone buzzes in his hand; once, twice, thrice.

 _Fuck,_ says Steve’s first message when Bucky dares to look.

 _I’m jealous,_ says the second.

 _That cat is a beauty,_ says the third, and Bucky bites back a laugh, starting to type his reply. Before he can finish, though, another text comes in.

 _For real tho, you’re gorgeous,_ Steve says, followed by a heart eyes emoji, and Bucky’s whole body goes hot and pudding-y in zero point two seconds flat. It’s not the first time Steve’s called him good-looking - they met on _Tinder_ , for god’s sake - but for all his sass, there’s something so incredibly genuine in the way Steve compliments Bucky that gets under his skin.

Bucky hasn’t even opened Tinder since Steve and he exchanged numbers, and he’s been mentally slapping himself for getting so invested so quickly, but hey, Steve’s incredibly hot and incredibly nice - even though he does seem to like getting arrested. Maybe he has a handcuff kink.

 **_Would probably look good in your bed, huh?_ ** Bucky sends back and regrets it immediately, but Steve’s reply comes through lightning-fast, prompt and heartfelt.

_Jesus, you gotta even ask? Like nothing else_

Bucky shifts a little, biting his lip. On the couch Clint yawns, sits up and squints blearily at him and Liho, who’s pressed against Bucky’s face. “That cat loves you more than me,” he says mournfully.

**_Yeah?_ **

_Yeah._

_Are you free? Can I send you something?_

Okay. _Okay._ That something is Very Clearly not suitable for public spaces, and Bucky is _extremely down_ for finding out what Steve’s dick looks like, because he’s been daydreaming about getting intimate with it for solid half a week.

Steve wanting to send him an actual dick pic _shouldn’t_ come as a surprise, but Bucky’s still in the weird Oh Lord I Ain’t Worthy Of The Man zone where he listens to a lot of Dolly Parton and twists himself into pretzels in front of the mirror to check if he _looks_ like he has _This Is Dolly Parton_ favorited in his Spotify. In that stage, _everything_ comes as a surprise to his poor brain that just wants to doodle hearts everywhere.

“I gotta go,” he says, sitting up abruptly.

“Alllllllright,” Clint drawls, his eyebrows climbing up suspiciously. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Nothing,” Bucky lies. “Just remembered I was supposed to iron my shirts tonight.”

 **_Give me twenty_ ** _,_ he texts back to Steve, and rolls onto his feet, shaking the kinks out of his lower back.

“Do you even _own_ a button-up shirt?” Clint asks, as if Bucky wasn’t wearing one to work not three hours ago. “If you’re leaving to fuck the Pancake Guy, I don’t wanna know about it, you hear me? _Don’t_ ruin maple syrup from me.”

Bucky splutters out a sound that’s somewhere between terrified and enraged. “I’m _not_ going to _fuck the Pancake Guy!”_

“If you smell of butter the next time I see you, I’m disowning you.”

“What’s going on?” Nat asks as she comes in to see the racket, wiping her hands on her pants. She scoops Liho up, letting the cat claw her way up to her shoulders.

“Bucky’s leaving to be a human smorgasbord for the Pancake Guy.”

Natasha’s expression goes sly which means that she 100% knows something both Clint and Bucky are happily oblivious to.

“I’m _not,”_ Bucky insists. “I don’t even _like_ pancakes.”

“Don’t worry, Clint,” Natasha says sweetly and pats him on the shoulder. “It’s not Mr All Day Breakfast. I’ll see you out, Bucky.”

At the door she leans in to hug him, Liho still perched on her shoulders, and says in a low voice, “Just so you know, Steve’s in my stitch and bitch club, we met at the protest a few weeks back. He talked about you non-stop on Thursday. I haven’t said anything to him, but he’s solid. He’d be good for you.”

“How do you know it’s me he’s talking about?”

Nat snorts. “Honey, there aren’t that many guys in New York who go by ‘Bucky’ and work in a suit shop. Plus he showed me a photo. You looked really cute in it, by the way.”

“Point taken. Thanks, Nat.” Bucky squeezes her and scratches Liho between the ears. “I’ll call you.”

“I don’t know if Steve prefers butter or maple syrup, though,” Nat says, straight-faced. “Maybe he’s a jam guy.”

***

Bucky gets home in a record time, kicks off his shoes and peels off his overcoat before flinging himself on the couch with his phone.

 **_Home._ ** He bites his lip, contemplating, and then decides that the direct action is the best way. **_If you’re gonna send me a dick pic, consider this my enthusiastic consent. If not, carry on._ **

Steve's reply comes so fast that he must have been waiting with his phone for Bucky to text.

_Now that you asked I probably should tell you that I was gonna send you a meme_

Bucky’s heart plummets in his chest, because here he’s gone and made himself a damn fool again, and now he has to fake his death and move to New Zealand to start a winery and won’t see Liho _ever again._

(Lifetime supply of Sauvignon Blanc, though? Might be worth it.)

Before he can plan the smoothest way to acquire a fake body and burn his house down, Steve sends another text.

_I’m kidding, sorry. You’re just so fucking amazing_

_Anyway since you consented_

The photo isn’t _racy,_ exactly: it’s actually quite artful in the way it’s framed. There's just Steve's hand, sliding down into his opened jeans, framing the shape of his dick underneath the white briefs. Bucky's breath hitches when he sees it, anyway, because Steve is most definitely hard, and he looks just the perfect size for Bucky to take, fat and promising.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, fumbling to get his slacks open so that he can palm himself over his underwear, imagining that it's Steve's broad palm and long fingers skating up his dick and pressing down, kneading him until he’s fattening up to full hardness.

 **_Jesus_ ** _,_ he manages to send one-handedly.

_Good?_

**_Yeah. Fuck_ **

_Let me see you?_

Bucky bites his lip, puts the phone down to yank his sweater and t-shirt up to expose his chest, his nipples tightening in the cool air. It takes a few tries, but he manages to get the inviting sprawl of his body captured in one photo, from his rucked-up shirt down to his spread legs, his cock tenting his underwear. It's a good photo: his body looks soft and pliant, open for Steve to picture his hands on, pushing Bucky’s shirt up and palming his pecs, or smoothing down towards the V of Bucky's legs.

He sends it to Steve, biting his lip. Bucky’s not a stranger to nudes: he's sent a few of them to people he’s hooked up with, and been cool with it - or as cool as he is capable of - but there's something about taking them for _Steve_ that gets his cheeks hot, and a good, pleasurable kind of shame tightening in his stomach.

_Fuck_

_You're a sweet slip of a thing aren't you_

Bucky isn't a _big_ guy, per se - he’s always been slim, and prefers running to lifting which shows in his greyhound physique: average height, sleek and lean, with long legs and a nice ass. He's been complimented on his body before, but nobody has ever called him _a sweet slip of a thing_ before Steve, and it's a shock how _good_ it feels: it's a little patronizing, almost cooing. Bucky imagines how it would sound murmured into his ear, accompanied by Steve's large hands framing his waist, and the rush of arousal and humiliation twists sharply in his chest, hot and glowing. His face feels red as a fire truck, and he has to card a shaky hand through his hair to get himself under control.

He takes a photo from another angle, showing his flushed face and bright eyes, hair mussed and bottom lip sucked into his mouth. **_Yeah. You like it?_ **

It takes a while for Steve to reply, the typing notification going on and off. Bucky uses the time to wriggle out of his layers and teasing a nipple with his thumb, watching Steve type.

_Fuck, sweetheart, look at you_

_How could I not_

_I could lift you up and put you on my lap and you’d fit perfectly_

Bucky actually whimpers at the thought, fingers skating down to massage his dick through the underwear. He’s almost painfully hard and already leaking, and he hasn't even _seen_ Steve's cock yet. Talk about desperate.

His unasked plea is answered as Steve sends him another photo, the complete opposite to the first one. It's a mirror selfie: he’s taken off the jeans and is just in tight boxer briefs and nothing else, all that glorious skin and muscles on display. His free hand is pulling the briefs out of the way, low enough that his hard dick is fully visible, curving against his abdomen beautifully.

Bucky swallows, his mouth wetting. It's a gorgeous dick, uncut and thick, and Bucky squirms as he imagines how well it would stretch him out and plug him up or make his jaw ache. Steve looks fucking _enormous_ in the photo, his shoulders broad and thick with muscle, and his arms make Bucky want to get down to his knees and offer up praise for a good, long while.

 **_I want to get my mouth on you_ ** _,_ he manages with trembling fingers. **_I’d make it so good for you_ **

_Yeah, baby, fuck I know_

_Your mouth should be illegal_

**_You look fucking unreal_ ** _,_ Bucky types, wrapping his fingers around his cock and moaning at the sheer relief; his hand is cool and dry, perpetually suffering from bad circulation, and it feels heavenly on his overheated skin, pleasure making his toes curl.

_Talk about yourself, I can’t stop looking at that photo you sent me_

**_Jesus Steve_ **

_Show me, sweetheart_

Bucky pushes his briefs out of the way and takes a photo with his hand on his dick, angling the camera so that Steve can see how flushed and wet the conversation has made him. He can’t help but stroke a few times, a shaky, broken sound pushing out of his chest. He wishes he could see Steve and hear all those pet names, but realistically he knows that full-on phone sex isn’t something he’s ready for, not before he’s actually met Steve.

_Look at you gorgeous_

_You thinking about my hand on you?_

**_Yeah_ **

**_Feels amazing_ **

_I’d take such good care of you, honey_

Bucky’s grip on himself tightens because he knows, he _knows_ Steve would - Steve would do as he promised and pick Bucky up like nothing, put him on his lap and cover Bucky’s dick with his hand, kiss him until Bucky would be squirming and spreading his legs further. Steve would keep one hand in Bucky’s hair, holding him in place, stroking and squeezing before taking his clever fingers back to rub against Bucky where he’s so vulnerable and hungry for him; Steve would call him _my sweet slip of a thing_ as he worked Bucky open, and finally slide in, one torturous inch at a time. He’d make Bucky do the rest for him, lean back on his hands and watch Bucky twist and rotate on his cock, call him those saccharine-sweet names--

Bucky comes with a surprised gasp, spilling over his fingers, sagging back against the couch. His whole body feels like he was balled up and put in the dryer, spun until he became warm and loose and ready to be folded into a neat KonMari square. When he gets his breath back, he takes a pic of the mess on his stomach on a whim and sends it before kicking off his slacks to avoid getting spunk on them.

 _You’re gonna be the death of me,_ Steve sends back, followed by a photo of him sprawled in an armchair, lazy smile on his flushed face, a similar mess on his abs. _Hello 911 a hot guy is trying to murder me with his thighs._

**_My turn to get arrested, huh_ **

_It gets lonely in the jail, sweetheart, what can I say_

Bucky has to slap himself lightly to stop grinning like a fucking dumbass, but it’s futile. He cleans himself up, changes into pajamas, and puts Netflix on. They text about a book Steve’s been reading for a while before Steve gets a work call and has to disappear to deal with a server problem that ends up taking several hours. Bucky curls up on the couch, feeling like he’s floating, warm and drowsy and sated, not really even following the movie properly until it’s time to go to bed for real. It’s been a while since he’s gotten his rocks off this thoroughly, with someone else or by himself, and he wants to bask in the afterglow as long as he can.

As he forces himself up from the couch, he thinks about the past five days and realizes that he’s never texted with anyone this long before actually meeting them in person - with most people he’s matched with on Tinder, he’s exchanged a couple of messages before agreeing on a date. He’s a firm believer of not wasting anybody’s time more than necessary, and usually meeting up as soon as possible helps eliminate potential Pancake Guys from his dating pool.

But with Steve he’s been content to get to know him through text first, and suddenly Bucky doesn’t understand why they haven’t even _talked_ about going out. They get along so well online, and Nat has already vouched for Steve, so there’s really no reason why they shouldn’t just go for drinks or something, see if the chemistry translates into real life.

Well. No time like the present. He taps out the text as he turns off the living room light and walks into the bedroom, flopping down on the bed.

**_Wanna get coffee with me sometime?_ **

He waits, jiggling his leg anxiously. Steve does seem to be into him, but it's a completely different thing to text someone with the relative anonymity of being just words on the screen than actually meeting in person. If Steve doesn't want to meet, Bucky will-- Well. Go back to Tinder, probably, or just resign himself to being single for a few more years (or decades) because while his crush on Steve is absurdly fast and bad, he knows it's not healthy to hang onto someone who doesn't want him back that way. It’s been fun until now, but it’s not fair for either of them to expect something the other isn’t ready to give.

He dicks around on Twitter as he waits, watches a full 13-minute Plan With Me video from YouTube, and likes thirty-seven photos on Instagram.

Steve doesn't reply. There's a blue checkmark next to Bucky’s message, indicating that it's been seen.

Twenty minutes later Bucky puts his phone down, swipes a hand over his eyes to wipe off his churning disappointment, and goes to brush his teeth.

When he comes back, his phone is blinking with a new message from Steve.

_I don't know if I can :/ I’m scheduled for a lot of shifts this week_

Bucky sits on the bed for a long while just looking at the message, before tapping carefully out, **_It's cool, no worries._ **

_Sorry!_

**_No prob, gnight,_ **Bucky sends, and that's the end of it.

***

The disappointment feels even starker in daylight. When Bucky finally drags himself out of bed after 10 a.m., the first thing he sees is his slacks on the living room floor, left there after yesterday’s fiasco. He stands at the doorway for a few minutes, staring at them.

Then he promptly turns and goes back to bed. He hasn’t had a good Sadness Sunday in a while, so it’s better to get started early.

Nat calls around noon, startling him out of the Most Definitely Moping session he’s having in his bed with Instant Hotel and a tub of plain yoghurt.

“What did Steve say?” she asks when Bucky picks up, unrolling his stifling blanket burrito a little.

“What.”

“Steve called _me_ in panic this morning because he thinks he fucked up the thing with his crush. _Me._ I didn't know we were on that level of friendship but apparently I'm the only one who seems objective enough.”

“The irony,” Bucky mumbles around the spoon.

“I told him you're my friend, it didn’t seem fair to keep it from him. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Bucky eats another spoonful. “We sexted, I asked if he wanted to get coffee sometime, and he said he didn't have the time. It's fine. He doesn’t owe me that just because he sent me a dick pic. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Lord.” Nat exhales loudly through her nose. “Did he explicitly say, ‘no, Bucky, I do not want to have coffee with you, ever’ or did you assume it was implied?”

“He didn't,” Bucky says mulishly. “But he didn't say he wished he could either.”

“I can work with that,” Nat says. “Stop eating yoghurt in bed, it's gross. Love you.”

After she hangs up, Bucky looks down at the yoghurt, thinks about his life choices for a few seconds, and decides to go for a run. He picks the slacks of shame up from the living room floor and throws them into the hamper as he leaves.

He’s nearing the end of his usual 7-mile route when his bluetooth headphones beep with an incoming call. It's probably Natasha either giving him news or wanting to know if he’s still gorging on dairy in bed, so he hits the answer button on the headphones’ remote and says, “Look, Nat, I put the yoghurt away, okay.”

“...Uh, good?”

Oh. Not Nat, then. “Who’s this?”

“Bucky?” It’s an unknown male voice, deep and pleasing. Bucky would listen to a nature documentary narrated by him any day. “It’s Steve.”

 _“What,”_ Bucky says, suddenly embarrassed by his opening line and heavy breathing.

“Steve,” Steve repeats, bless him, like Bucky didn't hear him the first time. “Is-- is it a bad time?”

“No, I’m just on a run, it's fine.” Bucky slows down to a jog, winding down for the last half a mile. He sounds surprisingly cool considering that he feels like a vintage Polly Pocket doll that’s fallen out of his heart-shaped house box, rattling around in someone’s schoolbag. Steve's _calling_ him, Steve still wants to contact him despite him fucking it up last night, Bucky doesn’t need to move to NZ, _what the fuck._

“Okay.”

There’s a long, awkward silence. It starts drizzling, and Bucky speeds up again. “Did you want something?” he prompts finally when it looks like Steve actually isn’t going to say anything.

“Oh! Um. I wanted to apologize.”

Bucky’s heart is clapping on a really fucking loud bongo drum in his chest, and he can’t decide if it’s just the run or Steve’s voice causing it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Steve exhales loudly. “I’m sorry I accidentally let you think I don’t want to meet you. I do, Bucky, _I do._ I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Tuesday, and yesterday was amazing, but I-- I panicked, I don’t even know why.” There’s some shuffling, like he scratches his head. “I mean I _do_ have a lot of shifts scheduled, so I don’t know if I can find time for you before next weekend, but I should’ve never put it like that. I’d love to go on a date with you, if you’ll still have me.”

 _“Oh,”_ Bucky says, tripping a little on his own feet, barely dodging a swearing tourist who’s fighting with a map. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve promises earnestly. “I like you a lot, you have the worst jokes.”

Bucky splutters out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Says the guy who put _arresting personality_ on his fucking Tinder profile!”

“Hey, it caught your attention.” But Steve’s laughing now, warm and low and relieved, and it settles into Bucky’s belly, heating his whole body. “Can I take you out next Saturday? I know a nice place.”

“Apology accepted. It better not be the police station,” Bucky says, grinning stupidly as he turns onto his street and jogs down to his building.

Steve mock-gasps. “I would never! All I’m saying is bring your own bail, sweetheart. Your criminally cute face might be too much.”

“I’ll have you know that my face is wanted in thirty states.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees brightly. “By me.”

***

Monday sucks.

Bucky has a headache half the night, sleeps like shit, and has to skip his morning run due to the icy rain. Steve’s tied up in meetings at work and can’t text. At least Bucky has only a half-shift - he gets in at noon and can leave at four because some filthy rich banker has booked a private fitting and the shop is closing early.

He stops in Starbucks on the way home, tired and a little cranky and desperate for a treat. The line isn't very long, just a handful of people before him, so Bucky pulls out his phone and settles in for the wait. Luckily his headache has abated somewhat, so maybe he can get a short nap in once he gets home.

 _You still at work?_ Steve's sent him barely a minute ago.

 **_Omw home_ ** _,_ Bucky sends back. **_How come?_ **

The line shuffles two steps forward. There's a tall, built guy in front of Bucky, wearing a light down jacket and a gigantic knitted scarf, a baseball cap backwards on his head. He’s the exact kind of build Steve would be, judging from the photos he’s sent, and Bucky idly admires his shoulders as his phone pings.

But when Bucky opens the message, he nearly spits out the gum he was chewing, because on the screen is a photo of Steve's - thankfully clothed - crotch: his jeans are undone and pushed open, and his dick is curving enticingly under his boxer briefs, hard and straining against the material. Bucky wants to get his mouth on _every single inch of it._ Jesus _fuck._

He deposits the gum into a napkin with shaky hands so that he doesn’t accidentally swallow it in his thirst. Steve can’t have taken the pic just now; as far as Bucky knows he’s still at work. Or maybe he’s sent it _from_ work. Bucky doesn’t know which would be more terrifying and arousing.

Distantly he registers the guy in front of him step up to order. He has a really nice voice, deep and oddly familiar.

When the barista asks for a name, the guy says, “Steve.”

Bucky looks slowly up, his gaze traveling up from a pair of boots to extremely well-fitting jeans and narrow waist as his mystery man turns his head and Bucky sees his profile.

“Steve?” he asks, disbelieving.

Steve blinks and turns properly to squint at him, and then his whole face is lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Bucky?”

He looks a little rumpled, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder like he’s on the way home from work, maybe to start his on-call shift. Fuck. He’s _really_ there, like Bucky won some heavenly Big City Meet Cute lottery.

Bucky opens his mouth to say hi, or maybe to launch himself into Steve’s arms and kiss him to death, but then he happens to glance down at his phone, and, yeah. Okay. _Okay._ “Did you just send me a dick pic from _Starbucks?”_  

A passing businessman inhales his Americano and starts coughing.

“Well, I didn't _take_ it here,” Steve says cheerfully, and lord, he's even more handsome in real life, big and solid like a fucking subway car but infinitely better smelling. “Public indecency has so far never been the reason why I’ve gotten arrested.”

“Uh,” says the barista.

“I'm having a slice of banana nut bread, please,” Bucky says to her in a tone that's just borderline desperate, because he _did not_ just say ‘dick pic’ out loud at Starbucks. “Toasted. He’s paying.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Steve confirms, beaming. “Make it two slices.”

“Sure,” she says, eyeing Steve suspiciously, like he would have somehow managed to take a dick pic in the line without anyone noticing. She rings in their order and Steve swipes his card, looking way too happy to be paying for some random dude’s snacks.

But Bucky’s not just some random guy; he’s supposed to have a date with Steve on Saturday, except fate has clearly decided that they should mash mouths here and now, and Bucky is _definitely_ going to kiss this gift horse.

“I’d say sorry about the pic but if it had this outcome, I'm not apologizing for it,” Steve says as they step away from the cashier. He puts his hand tentatively on Bucky’s lower back, pressing firmer when Bucky sways helplessly closer and tucks his nose into Steve’s scarf. It’s unconventional, to be cuddling like this on the first meeting, but nothing about their pseudo-relationship is conventional to begin with, plus Bucky’s tired, and Steve smells so good that he wants to take a nap right there against Steve’s broad chest.

“You’re just smug because it was a good photo,” Bucky mumbles against the wool. “I thought you were still at work.”

Steve squeezes him tighter, laughing softly. “Nah, got out early. I can’t stay, though, I’m on call again tonight and need to get home for it.” He hesitates for a few seconds. “Actually, do you want to come for dinner? I won’t be much of a company if something comes up, but until then I’ll do my best.”

“That sounds great,” Bucky says honestly, looking up. Up close Steve’s nose is crooked and dotted with pale freckles, and his jaw looks like it was cut from a slab of concrete. Somehow it makes everything even better, because despite his fantastic looks he still has these little quirks, just like Bucky’s enormous forehead and funnily shaped ears. “Which precinct do you live in? Do the cells have Wi-Fi?”

Steve grins. “Can’t bring stolen property to the jail, and you look like million dollars, so I’ll have to take you home instead.” He swipes a loose curl back from Bucky’s forehead, eyes fond and pleased. “I'm gonna kiss you now,” he says, and all Bucky can do is lean up and beat him to it.

The height difference is just enough that Bucky has to get up on his tiptoes to find the best angle, and he loves every single second of it. Steve is big and warm, his mouth a little chapped and tasting like breath mints, but he kisses Bucky like he means it, hands clasped at Bucky’s lower back, and doesn’t stop kissing him until the poor barista smacks him in the arm with their order.

They leave a $40 tip. Bucky’s deleted Tinder from his phone for good before they even make it to the subway.

That night Bucky falls asleep in Steve's bed, thoroughly wined and dined and - most importantly - extremely thoroughly kissed; wearing a shirt and pajama pants that are both too big for him, his head nestled snugly in Steve's armpit. Steve kisses his hair, runs a hand over Bucky’s flank, and gets back to the Twitter argument he’s having with an anti-vaxxer.

***

On their one year anniversary, Steve turns up to the shop near closing time, wearing a gorgeous three-piece suit he must have rented from somewhere. He browses for a few lazy minutes, and then looks up and catches Bucky’s eye over the AW 2019-2020 tie collection.

There’s no Celine Dion, or extravagant flower arrangements, but when Bucky turns back from pretending to work so that Steve can do his mysterious disappearing act, there _is_ a velvet ring box sitting on the counter, and Steve down on one knee.

“I want a life sentence with you,” Steve says, and well, how can Bucky say no to that.

**Author's Note:**

> My tunglr dot com is [here](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com). Most of the time I'm rolling around on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/badrohmance) as @badrohmance.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Tinder Is the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624927) by [Loolph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph)




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